


Touch

by superagentwolf



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blackwatch Era, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, Eventual Smut, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Slash, Slice of Life, Tags May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-06-28 23:49:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15717591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superagentwolf/pseuds/superagentwolf
Summary: Genji and McCree are not immediate friends. They're not even friends after a lot of work, sometimes from both sides.But they're the same. And that's really all that matters, isn't it?-Or; McCree and Genji have escapades and maybe also learn a lot about living and loving.





	1. Prelude

He is young. Two years younger than Jesse. Small body, hard lines. Coiled tight.

Prepared.

Jesse never asks what it is that Genji is prepared for. He thinks he has an idea—pieces it together from flashes of memory; a biotic field jammed onto the ground as Jesse yelled for help, as those dark eyes looked up at him with unseeing pain.

Well.

Well—so, Jesse doesn’t ask. He doesn’t need to.

Instead, there’s only the silence between them and the way Genji slowly moves from blind fury to a simmering anger that never quite overcomes him. Always just under the surface. It explodes, sometimes, in the heat of battle. When they have been fighting for so long that Genji rips the sword from his back and lashes out at anyone that stands in his way.

It is beautiful to watch. Beautiful, but full of pain. The words he says echo in Jesse’s ears for hours afterward.

This happens one mission, with the Shimada clan bearing down on them. Jesse breathes in, out, ducks from cover—

—fires off three rapid-fire rounds.

He hears Genji overhead; would hear him through the comm, but they are so close, and the battle cry is so loud that the comm doesn’t matter. Jesse spares a glance at the man; Genji is all shining-black cybernetics and blinding-green light. The trail of the dragon he calls forth blazes.

Jesse can see the afterglow, when he closes his eyes. It doesn’t hurt like it should.

He really shouldn’t close his eyes in the middle of a fight.

Something whistles by—an arrow, maybe, or a shuriken—and Jesse curses quietly. He holds his breath and waits to break from cover.

The problem is that Genji, when he suddenly flies into a bloody fury, doesn’t always take into consideration that he is _not_ a _tank_. Reyes has bitched about it, Morrison has noted it—hell, Angela had disappointedly said something, when she was busy picking shrapnel out of Genji’s prosthetics.

You would have thought that would be enough. But no, Genji just didn’t seem to know himself. Not when he pulled his sword and started to cut through enemies like they were paper.

“Shit,” Jesse curses. He rubs a tired hand over his forehead and considers his choices. This is a small strike team; this is Blackwatch. They are meant for quiet, concise missions. Not the shit show this has turned into.

Jesse decides he can think about it later. Now, he breaks cover and barely dodges projectiles while he tries to close the gap between himself and Genji. All Jesse knows is that he needs to get to his partner, because the more distance there is, the more trouble Genji will get into. There are still a dozen targets left on the field and Jesse can’t risk being the only one left.

The green glow dissipates and Jesse catches sight of Genji ducking into a barely-covered doorway. “Fuck,” Jesse curses, again, because Genji is visibly worn. He always is. “Stay there—”

It’s the years of training that make Jesse interrupt himself to roll out of the way as a projectile narrowly misses his chest. It manages to nick his arm anyway. Jesse fires off a round—takes the attacker down—and then throws a glance at Genji. He isn’t going to last too much longer, without medical attention. There are still half-broken shuriken embedded in his armor.

Jesse knows he has to do something. He grits his teeth and speaks into his comm. “Gen—"

_Thwip._

This one hits home. Jesse bites out a sound of pain and throws himself behind a pillar. He hears Genji say something but doesn’t register it. He looks down to see the arrow in his shoulder and feel something sour in his throat. A reminder. Phantom pain.

 _Fuck it,_ he thinks. _No point in delayin’ the inevitable._

Jesse ducks from cover, Peacekeeper at his hip. He finds time slow, clotting blood, and then something sharp radiates from behind his eye.

He can’t not say it.

“It’s high noon,” he drawls, a smile on his lips. It’s not a happy thing. It is necessity—

—like the showmanship of his hat, like the line he repeats before he fires, like everything else.

He loses track of how many rounds go off at once. ( _Lie. He just hates to think about it, to think about after_.) Jesse watches men fall from all over and then, with Peacekeeper hot in his hand, he feels the impact.

It is a little like a bomb. There is a mushroom cloud of smoke and debris; a rising wind of decay. Jesse feel the stab behind his eye increase, from an ice pick to the absolute trauma that feels like _I am goin’ to lose my eye and it is never going to be the same—_

Someone is calling his name. He’s not sure who. Jesse manages to fumble Peacekeeper back in place and he blinks slowly; the world is still in delayed motion. He can still feel the aftershock of targeting as it ripples in his veins.

Genji is there. His face is mostly obscured—everything but his eyes. “McCree.”

If only the damn ninja would just use his name, already.

Jesse raises a hand to his ear. It’s ringing. The comm is still there, so he presses his fingers to it. Doesn’t bother to take a breath. His voice will be fine.

He is practiced.

“Gonna need a pickup,” Jesse says. Keeps his tone lighthearted. “I’m thinkin’ an extraction would be best. Genji needs medical attention. Tell Angela to be ready, will ya?”

The answers don’t register. Jesse breathes through the fog—the lingering syrup that clings to him; makes the world sticky. It is like the spot that a rotten apple leaves behind. He can smell it—

—smell death. It does not come from outside. It is on his tongue; sticky and leaden.

Jesse makes it onto the transport before he knows it is not the end.

Genji starts to say, “McCree, you—”

Jesse holds up a finger. He moves too slowly; he knows this. Genji’s eyes narrow—his brows would be furrowed, beneath the visor—and he hesitates. He does not step forward.

It has been a burn. The molasses. The sensation that is not quite the phantom of his missing left arm. His chest is tight.

Jesse feels it, beneath the surface. Creeping.

It is a little like an imposter trying to take his body. An alien entity that slides and rips the flesh from the skin, as a butcher with knife would. Like a hunter cleaning its kill, except the hunter is somewhere inside and Jesse can’t stop it—

—he hasn’t been able to, since he shot a dozen men at once not five minutes ago—

—and—

—he hits the ground.

Gasps.

His eyes are wide, despite his need to keep it hidden. To keep this hidden. No one needs to see this; no one needs to know. They shouldn’t. Jesse feel the heat radiate, insistent, and then—

—then, there is nothing.

He can’t breathe.

He can’t breathe, and he is thinking distantly that he is going to watch himself die, somehow.

Genji is crouched at his side, hands on his body, saying something. Jesse wants to push him away. Doesn’t want his death on this kid; this kid, that suffered so much before they even met. That knows what almost-death feels like. Jesse curls away, up against the wall of the transport, and then he blacks out.

It is not comforting. It is not fine. It is nothing and then, without any sense of how much time has passed, he reels upright, choking on air that suddenly fills his lungs. His hands scrabble at his chest but the armor there stops him. He needs—

—has to feel his heart. Needs the beat beneath his hand.

( _What if he’s dead? What if it finally killed him and he is cursed forever?_ )

“McCree. What—”

Jesse throws a hand out. Can’t let Genji near. “’M fine,” he manages. He sounds like shit. “I—”

They jolt. The transport has landed, and they are back at base, where Jesse can escape to his room and wonder why the fuck he just—

— ( _died. He died and nothing he can say, or think will change that, because he felt it and—_ )

“We are here,” Genji says. “You—”

“Good. Go see Angie. Ya need all that looked at,” Jesse says. He waves a hand at Genji.

Narrow eyes, again. “McCree. Whatever just happened—”

“Is over. You still need lookin’ at. Go on.”

Jesse feels the moment of hesitation in the air. The resistance. He half expects Genji to knock him out and drag him away, but…

…but, that won’t happen. Genji is still glowing from the rage that only recently left him. He is raw at the edges. Jesse watches him walk away, hands flexing as if they can still feel the weight of his blade.

The air feels like fire in Jesse’s lungs. He sucks in a breath, more ragged now that he has no audience, and pulls himself upright. He leaves the transport and forces his hand away from the wall, despite how good it looks and how much he knows it could help hold him up.

Someone will come find him, later. He will have to debrief.

But for now, Jesse is alone with the unsteady drum in his chest and the danger that lingers in his blood.

* * *

Genji watches from the doorway. He is uncharacteristically hesitant—hands curled at his sides, resting on the balls of his feet like he is about to run. His eyes are heavy on Jesse, twin weights that carry more guilt than anything else.

Jesse errs on the side of caution. “Somethin’ botherin’ ya?”

Filling up the space changes things. Genji’s eyes sharpen and he gives Jesse a pointed look.  Jesse isn’t sure whether he is supposed to understand. After a beat of silence, Genji crosses the room and comes to stand at the side of the couch that Jesse is sprawled on.

“You want a seat, I can—”

“No,” Genji says. Short, precise. Like everything else. He seems frustrated, despite his even tone. “I—apologize.”

Jesse doesn’t speak because he doesn’t know how to respond.

“’Less you done somethin’ I don’t know about yet, you ain’t got a reason to,” Jesse replies slowly. He fights the urge to glance at the doorway; to look for someone else. This must be a prank, or otherwise a command.

No way Genji would come here and apologize for something he hasn’t done. Jesse doesn’t know what he’s apologizing for, in the first place.

( _Lie._ )

Genji knows. “I should not have left you. Not—”

“You did what you’ve done a dozen times before,” Jesse says, waving a hand. He means it to be reassuring, but Genji stiffens and Jesse wants to shoot himself. “Listen—”

“It is unacceptable,” Genji says softly. “I put the entire operation at risk by exposing myself and forcing you to help.”

“Hey,” Jesse replies hotly. “I ain’t helpin’ anyone I don’t care to, ya hear? Hell, if I’d ‘a wanted to, I coulda just left you in that corner and not even bothered.”

“You could not have,” Genji says quietly.

Jesse hears the unspoken part. ( _You are too good. You can’t leave someone behind, that way._ ) He has been unable to leave anyone ( _Genji_ ) behind, since that day he saw pain and torture and heartbreak and recognized something in the mess.

Jesse is a little unsettled by the response. He swallows that, too, and tries again.

“Come on, now. It ain’t yer fault. If anythin’, I shoulda used Deadeye sooner. At least share the load,” Jesse says. He smiles, and it comes easy—maybe because he has so much practice; maybe because it’s a teammate ( _Genji_ ).

Genji is not convinced. He’s not, but…

…he allows it.

“Perhaps we will both do better, next time.”

“Exactly,” Jesse smiles. The movement dislodges something in his chest, but he ignores it. It doesn’t matter. Not as much as the easy silence that settles between them.

It’s not perfect, but it’s good. That’s all he can ask for.

* * *

“Ah, shit—!”

Jesse flails and just barely catches Genji before the cyborg goes plummeting off the edge of the twentieth-story windowsill. With his metal hand frantically clenched around a nearby steel bar, Jesse only has the leverage to stay in place.

The building is a mess around them; windows are blown out and the floors are littered with jagged holes. Jesse’s arm radiates with a tug and burn. He’s strong, but it’s hard to be strong when an entire building is keeling over.

Jesse sucks in a harsh breath. “Genji. Come on, kid—”

“I am not a child,” Genji says, but his voice is distant. Thin.

Jesse snorts. “Sure. Ain’t we talked about rushin’ headfirst into things?”

“I seem to remember you leading the charge.”

“Now, that ain’t fair,” Jesse drawls. His heart is rabbit-quick, and his mind is racing in a hundred different directions. This is all he can do for Genji. “We both know I ain’t damn near as fast as you, runnin’. No way I was ahead.”

Silence.

Jesse’s pulse kicks into overdrive. He tightens his grip and hauls Genji up; the effort makes his shoulder burn. It might be dislocated from the explosion, but he’s not sure. He doesn’t really care. All he needs is to get them the hell out, while no one is looking for them and Genji isn’t dead.

He hopes.

A growl and strain later, Jesse manages to pull the cyborg up the side of the broken window and into the building. He is worried for a moment that Genji has passed out, but the cyborg’s eyes are screwed up in pain and concentration.

“What’s goin’ on?” Jesse presses. His hands skitter over the usual bullet holes and projectiles embedded in Genji’s armor. He plucks what he knows is safe from the metal, because there is too much to Genji—too many vital things—for Jesse to just haphazardly pull shit out.

Genji inhales and it sounds wrong. Raspy. Jesse’s heart skips painfully. “Not much power.”

“Power? Can you still—I mean, will you—”

( _Will he die?_ ) Jesse does not think about the possibility; cannot wrap his mind around the concept. It can’t happen. Not now.

Genji’s voice sounds far away. “I have to preserve what is important.”

“Right. Right, don’t keep talkin’,” Jesse says. He wants to hit his head against a wall and curse his stupidity. He wants to yell for the transport to come faster. “Don’t worry. Transport ain’t far. Angie’ll have ya patched up in no time.”

He only tells half a lie. The transport really isn’t that far. It arrives while Genji’s eyes are closed, his chest barely rising. Five miles from base, Jesse thinks maybe he’ll be an honest man for one day.

Except then, Genji’s chest doesn’t move and Jesse makes a choked noise. He frantically reaches for the cyborg and doesn’t even know what the fuck to do—

—there is metal, there are sensitive wires and mechanics he could destroy—

—but the transport lands, and Jesse is jostled aside as everyone takes care of Genji. His eyes are stuck to the small cyborg, with his scarred skin and silent body. Jesse can’t look away, wonders if he looked that way, too—

—and then someone is talking.

“—fine. You need to debrief,” the voice says. Jesse barely registers it.

He is too busy hoping that Genji hasn’t died, again.

* * *

He sits with his knees tucked up to his chest.

Jesse is reminded of the first time. When they insisted no one visit if they weren’t sterilized. It was the only time Jesse put up with the rules; he went through the whole business and sat in the room, watching the small form on the bed and wondering why he cared so much.

( _Once, he told himself Genji reminded him of kids like Javier, who had been in Deadlock until they most certainly won’t. Kids he could only visit in his nightmares._ )

That time, when Genji woke up, he was choked with anger and fear and pain. Jesse had gone, and he hadn’t talked about it since. The way Genji looked at him ( _familiar, a mirror_ ) had told Jesse to stay away.

Now, Jesse watches. Waits.

Genji is fine. His systems went on standby, Angela said. Not quite death. Jesse thanks all the stars in the sky, for that. Genji doesn’t need any more of death.

In the silence, Jesse sees Genji’s chest rise a little. A flicker beneath his eyelids. He is breathing on his own, now, and he is probably going to wake, soon. Jesse sighs quietly. Hangs his head between his knees and rubs his tired eyes.

He stands to leave as quietly as he can, because he knows better than to stay, but—

—a voice interrupts him, saying, “Why are you leaving?”

Jesse freezes with his body turned toward the door. He hesitates. Thinks he could pretend not to hear or pass it off.

( _He doesn’t want to. Never does._ )

“Thought you might want some privacy,” Jesse ventures. Tries to stay neutral and soft. He is still not sure he should turn around. He settles for staying where he is, in profile, half away but half there.

Genji makes a humming noise. “This is private.”

Jesse resists the urge to sigh again. Barely. “Last—before,” he corrects. “You weren’t too keen on me stickin’ around. Just thought I should go.”

“Before,” Genji echoes. There is still anger in his voice as he says it—remembers—but it is muted, either by drugs or time. “There is no privacy, here. Why would you pretend?”

“There is,” Jesse replies. There is that irritation, just under the skin. The phantom of something crawling inside. ( _Don’t use Deadeye, don’t, not unless you have to, please_ ). “And you need it, after somethin’ as fuckin’ big as dyin’.”

That interests Genji. The cyborg props himself up a little.

His visor is gone. Without it, Jesse can see the black bio-material that covers what would be Genji’s lower jaw and the front of his neck. It is smooth and perfect; an imitation of skin. It almost looks just like face paint. Despite his scars and the harshness in his features—his expression—Genji is beautiful. He has the fire of life in his eyes, even if it’s a vengeful inferno.

Wait. ( _Beautiful._ )

Jesse clears his throat. Suddenly—

—suddenly, needs to leave. Needs to gather his loose threads and shove them back in.

“And you know about that?” Genji asks. His eyes seem to stare right through Jesse.

Jesse laughs. It’s supposed to be charming, but he’s exhausted, and he’s spent so many hours at Genji’s side that he can’t tell up from down. “That’s private. I ain’t gonna tread on yer toes, Genji. Don’t have to worry ‘bout me.”

“I am not concerned about what you will say or ask,” Genji says, sharp. His words are venomous. “I can handle myself.”

“Wasn’t doubtin’ it—”

“Yes, you were. Curious. I am not like you. I—”

Oh. ( _Well, aren’t we just the same_ ). Jesse knows, now—knows too much and thinks all of this is a very bad idea. He is sleep-deprived and running on months of buildup. Months of dry comments and exchanged jokes, even with the ever-present undercurrent of uneasiness. Jesse is careful of Genji and Genji hates that, but he is careful, too. They both tiptoe around each other even when they are supposed to be—

—friends? ( _No. Lie._ ) Their broken pieces fit. They just keep pretending they don’t.

Jesse turns. Finally finds Genji’s eyes. Sees the familiar look in them—and even though Jesse is ( _mostly_ ) whole, he knows that look. Knows the distance. ( _I am not the same as everyone else, and I can’t change that._ )

“There ain’t nothin’ different about us,” Jesse says, firm. He supposes he shouldn’t put his hands on the bed and lean closer, but he can’t find a reason to stop. Not a good one, at least.

Genji’s eyes narrow. There is that inferno. “What, precisely, do you find the same? You are not nearly as—” he shakes his head. Doesn’t say a word, the word. “We are not.”

“You and I are partners,” Jesse says, quiet. This is stupid, so stupid, but he talks because he can’t think of any other way to explain. “We both can’t sleep, most nights. We don’t like Reyes’ waffles, ‘cause he toasts the shit outta them.”

“Those things—”

“We both need silence, before an op. Ain’t got heads for too much plannin’, ‘cuase it comes natural, once we’re in,” Jesse adds. He almost chokes on his last words but forces them out, anyway. “We’ve both lost bits ‘n pieces.”

“Even if you have nearly died,” Genji says, “It is not the same. Almost dying changes nothing.”

“Dyin’ changes everythin’,” Jesse agrees. He sees the minute it clicks—the recognition in Genji’s eyes; the way he finds the mark he is looking for. ( _The same._ )

Genji is quiet. His eyes turn away and he finds his right hand, where it rests on the bed. Jesse can see the usual ballet play across his features; the distance, disgust, terror, sorrow. A need. Jesse thinks about his left arm and how they are just the same. The very damn same.

He shouldn’t do what he is about to, but he does, anyway. Jesse figures if Genji skewers him, at least he’s already in the medical bay.

Jesse reaches out for Genji’s left hand—the pale, scarred skin bright under the lights—and rests his hand on top of it.

He is rewarded with a sharp intake of breath.

Genji’s fingers twitch. Jesse wonders if Genji wants to tear him apart with Dragonblade. If he would fly into a rage, if he could. While Jesse watches, Genji’s eyes slide toward their hands, painfully slow. He seems transfixed.

Something comes to mind. Angela, working with her usual careful gloves and mask.

“Ain’t nobody touched ya, sweetheart?” Jesse asks, quiet. He doesn’t mean to sound so…sweet ( _lie_ ), but his words are thick like honey and he can’t take them back.

Genji’s throat moves. The black bio-skin catches Jesse’s eye and he finds Genji pointedly looking away, something hazy in his eyes. “I do not—require,” Genji starts, choked, but he can’t quite finish. “I do not—”

“You do,” Jesse says, patient. He feels like he could make this fall apart with a heavy breath. He moves his hand, away from Genji’s. Traces toward the delicate bones of his wrist.

Jesse watches Genji’s fingers curl in the sheets. A tremor of muscle in his arm. It’s—

—intoxicating, almost. Heady. Some dizzy high that Jesse chases with his fingers as he moves further. He is interested in the swell of muscle, Genji’s bicep, the way things fit together. Even his prosthetics barely do it justice. Jesse watches Genji’s lips part, a silent reaction. The way his chest barely moves, because he is barely breathing.

“Ya don’t just need it,” Jesse says. He sounds more sedate than he feels; his heart hammers in his chest. He doesn’t mean to say what he does, but he does. “Deserve it. You deserve somethin’ good.”

He should stop when he sees the tremble that runs through Genji’s body, but he doesn’t. Jesse keeps going, because he is too entranced by the skin at Genji’s shoulder and neck. He just has to—

—stop.

He can’t just do this.

Jesse pauses and listens. Genji breathes, uneven, a little frayed. His eyes are still clouded but there is some desperation deep within them—a need that Jesse recognizes. Just a little more, and maybe he could reach it.

There is no visor. No metal in the way. Jesse lifts his hand and watches Genji reflexively turn away. A question forms in Jesse’s mouth and he asks, “No?”

Genji tries to shake his head. He only gets halfway through the motion; his eyes shut tight and his mouth opens. He doesn’t speak immediately, but when he does, it is a bare whisper. “Yes.”

Jesse can’t look away. He is fixated. Captured, in every way, by the flush and anticipation in Genji’s face.

The first thing Jesse traces is the line—the divide, between pale skin and black prosthetic. It isn’t even noticeable. The warmth radiates the same, but Jesse purposefully wanders further up the side of Genji’s scarred skin. The remnant of his past. He brushes a thumb under Genji’s lashes, to feel the softness of the fan they make.

( _Just a little more, and it could be more._ ) Jesse traces eyes, nose, cheeks. He is avoiding, because the weight of this touch is bearing down on him. He feels like his hand is as weighted as the metal one that rests on the table. Genji’s prosthetic hand curls around the other side of the bed, the creak his grip makes reminding Jesse that nothing is simple. This is not simple.

He wonders, if he brushed Genji’s lips, whether they would open. Whether—

—a door opens.

“Oh, good,” someone says.

Jesse doesn’t jump back. He should; he should put distance between them, but he is transfixed. Pinned. Genji’s eyes are still hazy and there is a lingering thread between them that is taut, vibrating with tension. Jesse’s throat feels dry when he swallows.

For just a moment, Genji’s eyes say that they want Jesse to stay. That they need his touch.

The look dissipates; is gone as soon as it came. Genji turns his head and the only indication of how much he doesn’t want to is the further creak of metal and the way he clenches his jaw.

Jesse turns. Remembers to find his hat and murmur something to Angela on his way out.

When he leaves, he still feels Genji’s skin beneath his hand.


	2. Simple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe it could be simple, this thing they are starting to have. Genji's not sure what to call it, but he takes it anyway. After all, it can be simple, can't it? Just rain, chocolate, and a few dodged bullets.

Genji is just—tired. That’s it, really. He is tired, and he needs to be _away_.

Which is why he’s currently on the roof, even as rain starts to pour down from the sky.

A few hours ago, he was somewhere else, where people fell to his shuriken left and right. The debrief was just as excruciating as always—with the added displeasure of Morrison and Reyes being on the outs.

That is something going nowhere fast, Genji thinks. It might even end badly, if they are not careful. He decides he does not want to be around for that.

He has suffered enough secondhand blame and firsthand harm. Enough for a lifetime.

Someone is coming up the stairs to the roof. Genji can hear the rattle of the ladder on the side of the building, along with a familiar metallic quiver. _McCree._

For a moment, Genji considers slipping away. Jumping from the side of the roof and descending toward his room. He feels a remote guilt at the idea of abandoning McCree, even if Genji didn’t ask for company.

It’s too late, anyway. A familiar hat crests over the edge of the roof. McCree wears it, of course, along with his heavy serape—but underneath, it’s clear he’s wearing pajamas. Or, as close to pajamas as he could ever get. Genji is a little surprised to see the faded black sweatpants and a shirt that is equally faded. This shirt is a little tight across McCree’s chest, like he bought it when he was younger and just forgot that he had more to fill it out with.

An intrusive thought. Genji pointedly does not look at McCree’s chest.

“Kinda cold out here,” McCree says. It’s not a remonstration, like Morrison might give. Not the unspoken question that Reyes would. This is a very McCree phenomenon. It is open-ended and empty of pressure. He says it just to give Genji somewhere to start, if he wants to.

Genji almost wants to crawl out of—

—not his skin. ( _He doesn’t have much of that left._ ) He wants to scratch at his exposed arm, nails along the healed scars that are starkly white.

“Is it?” Genji asks. He does not mean it to sound bitter ( _lie_ ) and he does not mean to give too much away, but inevitably, he does.

To his credit, McCree does not press. He tilts his head and curls his legs to his chest, oddly childlike and vulnerable. Genji is suspicious of it as an act, but he swallows his need to mock or distance himself. Someone else can be hurt, too.

McCree huddles like the world is assaulting him. Maybe it is, in his mind. “Ya eaten yet?”

“No.” Genji does less of a good job holding back his annoyance. The itch to leave mounts.

It is no fault of Jesse’s, Genji tells himself. This is simply Genji and his need to run, because running was the only thing that could have saved him ( _didn’t_ ) when his own brother decided Genji had to die.

Bad. Bad thing to think about.

Genji feels his breath thin in his chest. He pauses—the only way to describe it—and gets to his feet. He forgets the rain soaking his hair and running down his body. All he knows is that he must leave. He needs to _go_.

McCree doesn’t stop him. Genji makes it to the edge of the roof, prepared to run the last foot and jump, and then his foot slips. There is too much rain.

The thing is, he could still save his descent. He has memorized the watchpoint enough that this is not a problem.

But McCree doesn’t know that.

Genji only hears the soft jingle of spurs and the thick flutter of heavy fabric as McCree jolts into action. The man is across the roof in a breath, serape fluttering like some sort of cowboy right out of a breathtaking movie. His arm jerks out and wraps itself around Genji’s chest, pulling him back.

Genji can feel the tense flex of muscle in McCree’s arm. He can feel the heat of his skin and the faint whisper of hair on his arm. He _feels_ it and he realizes that Jes—McCree is touching him. Again.

His breath is short for an entirely different reason.

“Careful, there.” McCree’s voice rumbles between them—his chest to Genji’s back—and the vibration makes Genji feel like he’s on fire. He has the sudden, panicked need to push McCree away, but—

—he can’t.

How long has it been? ( _Since Jesse last touched him_.) Genji wants to press himself into the arm around his chest. Wants to absorb the warmth. It is another feeling he cannot quite rid himself of.

Before, he would have followed this to its inevitable conclusion. Genji might have already gone looking for company. Now…now, he cannot stomach the idea.

Except when it comes to McCree, apparently.

“I am fine.” Genji finally speaks, even if his voice feels rusty and sounds unsteady.

McCree pulls his arm away slowly. His fingers brush Genji’s arm and send a little electric spark over his skin. Genji almost reaches up to stop McCree’s retreat, but he forces his hand to stay at his side, where it wavers just a little.

If McCree notices, he doesn’t say anything. “I reckon we should get inside. Looks like this ain’t gonna get any better.”

He is talking about the rain, but Genji feels a sardonic little smile take over his lips. “No. It will not.”

Genji is turned toward the ladder—he is sure McCree would do something, if Genji tried to take jump again. Genji isn’t sure he can handle any more touch now, when he’s still raw, so he follows McCree inside.

When he feels the warmth of the heater inside the building, Genji wonders if it is reality or just another muscle memory. If the feeling is true, or just another memory.

“You should probably take somethin’ to your room.” McCree doesn’t push, but he walks deceptively close to Genji as he leads the way to the kitchen. Genji, for his part, is too tired to argue. ( _Lie_.)

McCree moves around the kitchen with the lazy ease of someone used to filling up empty spaces. Genji feels a little guilty about that—thinks he knows why, because Reyes has always had a soft spot for McCree, and McCree is just…a lot. He cares a lot, grins a lot, smirks a lot. He laughs, and the sound is warmer than the heat of a wood fire.

With Reyes and Morrison constantly at each other’s necks these days, Genji understands why McCree doesn’t seem put out by having to look after someone else and tiptoe around darker things. It doesn’t mean Genji enjoys it.

“Perhaps I should enlist Angela’s assistance. She will not be pleased to find a disaster in the morning,” Genji offers. He means to imitate—his past humor, Jesse’s playful jokes—but it comes out rougher than he intended it to.

McCree doesn’t take offense and Genji feels something in his chest ache. He tells himself it’s from the rain ( _lie_ ). “I’m hurt,” McCree moans, pressing a hand to his chest. “I can handle myself. You learn a few things, travelin’ all the time. ‘Sides, I was taught to take care ‘o myself.”

Genji ponders. Notes the distinct lack of attribution in McCree’s comment. Was it a mother, a father, a sibling? Genji doesn’t know whether the omission was for his benefit, or for McCree’s. He’s not sure that he cares. Not now.

Once before, he would have heard his father in his ear, telling him never to let his guard down. _Always gather._ Information was like gold, he said; so much of something so little could do great things.

Genji settles for watching McCree make hot chocolate. That is, he realizes after a few minutes, what McCree is making. The man has a tiny pot on the stove and milk at his elbow. McCree rummages for chocolate in the pantry and absently reaches for mugs on the top shelf of one of the cabinets.

The serape on McCree’s shoulders is askew. When he reaches up, Genji sees the man’s shirt hike up his side to reveal tan skin and the line of his hip. Genji realizes he’s staring and pointedly looks away to glare at the pot of almost-boiling water.

“You don’t usually go up to the roof.”

Genji’s eyes snap back to McCree. His fingers clench around the edge of the counter. “What makes you so certain?”

McCree shrugs. Puts a silver mixing bowl on the hot water and pours some chocolate in to soften it. “Never seen ya up there.”

It’s a concession. A little give, for nothing taken. McCree doesn’t take. He never does and that—that, is frustrating to Genji. It is so much easier to divide things, when people take. Blackwatch takes from Genji, so it is easy to detach. Reyes takes a little, so it is simple to not think of him as _father_ or _brother_ , or anything more than _leader_.

McCree doesn’t _take_. He gives, all the time. Gives Genji room. Silence. Time. Those gifts are harder for Genji to ignore.

“Why do you go to the roof?” Genji ventures. He’s not sure why. He tells himself he should not; taking means giving, no matter how kind the gesture may seem. Genji doesn’t want McCree to come and take when Genji least expects it. But some naïve part of him—some remnant of his past—holds hope.

McCree smiles a little. Empties the water from the pot and adds milk and the almost-melted chocolate. “Sunset looks nice from up there, ya know? My room ain’t exactly facin’ a nice view.”

“What is it facing?”

“Trainin’ grounds,” McCree replies. He snorts and shakes his head, stirring the mixture in the pot.

Genji imagines, for a moment, McCree on the roof. McCree, with his hat and serape, in his pajamas. Tipping his head back as he leans against something and watches the sun. Maybe with a cigar in hand. Maybe with a drink. Genji imagines McCree after an op, with bandages patched onto his skin. He imagines McCree waiting for others to return from an op, contemplative and quiet and always worried.

“My room has a view.” Genji can’t stop the words coming from his mouth. “We could arrange a trade.”

McCree’s hands stumble. The spoon he moves to set on the counter clatters a little, splashing drops of milk chocolate. His eyes flicker to the side, to look at Genji. There is something vulnerable in his surprise.

“No,” McCree finally says. “No, I won’t do that to ya. I can go the roof. It’s best if you have that room.”

He doesn’t explain why, but Genji guesses. _It’s best if you have privacy_. “I don’t watch the sunset,” Genji says, petulant. He’s not sure why he’s pushing, but he does.

“No. More of a sunrise man, ain’t ya?”

“I—” Genji stops himself and swallows his retort. He feels a flicker of warmth in his chest—a connection. They have only been in Overwatch together for a month, but suddenly, Genji feels as if they are much closer. As if some gap has been filled. “I enjoy the stars.”

It’s a confession. Something he would never have given. But McCree’s lips pull into a slow smile and the man looks at Genji, his eyes filled with an immeasurable warmth. “Really? I—that used to be my favorite thing about the desert. So wide open, the stars just filled up the sky. I miss it, sometimes.”

“Here, you can see them best from the tree on the south lawn.” Genji feels like he is chasing that smile—that warmth. He keeps talking because he wants it to stay. Needs it to.

McCree looks excited. He turns from the pot and suddenly, he looks much younger. Genji wonders, for the first time, how old the man is. He can’t be that much older. “Really? I’ve never tried it.”

“You should. It’s beautiful.”

There is that tug. That warmth. Genji has the sudden urge to reach out—to just touch the little corner of McCree’s smile. To brush his fingers against the stubble there. Before, Genji might have docked imaginary points for that stubble. Would have considered turning his attention to someone else. But then, Genji thinks, maybe he wouldn’t have. Maybe Genji would always have been drawn to that molasses accent and the honey in McCree’s eyes.

“I don’t suppose you would mind showin’ me?” There is hidden hope in McCree’s voice. He tries to make the question casual, but his excitement betrays him.

McCree is almost like a puppy. Genji nearly laughs. “I suppose,” Genji says. “If you would like.”

“I’d love it,” McCree says. His smile might split his face. He turns to serve the hot chocolate and Genji feels the fire rise in his chest again, unbidden.

This is not the lust he can handle and is used to. This is something else. Genji wonders if this is what having a friend feels like. If it’s something else.

Genji does something reckless. He wants more—just a little more—so he reaches for the mug McCree hasn’t filled yet and holds it. When the man turns, surprised, Genji holds it up. McCree reaches for the mug, but Genji doesn’t let go. He just waits for their fingers to brush and feels the touch ripple up his arm, like a shockwave.

For a moment, McCree’s eyes flick to Genji’s. They look for something—something he finds, because his smile is soft and small when he continues. McCree pours the hot chocolate but never moves his hand. It stays where it is, warm and firm, to support the mug.

“It’s an old recipe,” McCree says quietly. “Used to make it all the time.”

“I will treasure it, then.” Genji stares into the depths of the liquid and wants very badly to never let go. He wants to stay here, with the warm support of a man bigger than him. He wants to lean against McCree, because he knows the man can hold him up. Will, if asked.

McCree nudges the mug toward Genji, tipping it in offer. His hand never moves and Genji isn’t sure what warms him up more—the chocolate, or the hand. All he knows is the blooming warmth that fills his body and the sweetness on his tongue. “Good,” he says, once he has swallowed a mouthful. “Very good.”

“Good,” McCree echoes. His smile wavers. There is something else in his gaze—something heavy that Genji wants to reach out and touch. He can feel it in the air between them.

But McCree retracts his hand slowly, the brush of his callused skin against Genji’s scars electric. McCree reaches for his own mug and swallows a little too harshly. “I reckon we should be off to bed. Reyes’ll have our heads in the mornin’ if we get to trainin’ too late.”

_Too bad,_ Genji wants to say, but he is tired. The rain and the roof took so much out of him and now, with a warm mug in hand, he realizes just how much he needs sleep.

“You are right. I hope—sleep well,” Genji amends. He clutches the mug a little tighter but reminds himself to be careful. He can’t break it.

McCree tips his hat a little, an antiquated gesture that sends sparks through Genji. “Same to you,” the man says, raising his mug in a salute. “Come find me sometime. We’ll look at the stars.”

McCree leaves the kitchen and Genji waits there for a moment, eyes closed, soaking in the lasting scent of McCree’s soap and aftershave. The odd spice that clings to his serape. If he stays there long enough, Genji wonders if he would be absorbed into the haze. If he could linger there forever. There is something intensely comforting about McCree. It shouldn’t be true; Genji has seen the man kill six people in a row with unwavering precision. McCree has thrown flash bangs and rolled into cover within seconds. The man is part of Blackwatch.

Yet, as Genji stands in the kitchen, it is the hot chocolate and warm smile that makes him think of McCree. Not Blackwatch, and not death.

* * *

“’Scuse me,” Jesse drawls. The canister he tossed explodes in a puff and the man across from him stops in his tracks, dizzy. Jesse shoots him down and moves behind a half-wall.

A voice filters through his comm. _Genji._ “I am sure Angela will love to hear the results of your study in flattering our enemies to death.”

Jesse laughs shortly. He glances out from cover and finds two men. One falls with the low, metallic whistle of Genji’s shuriken. The other topples when McCree shoots him.

This is a simple op—extract the package. The exchange is taking place in a desolate stretch of highway, with abandoned gas stations and dusty wood homes scattered everywhere. If there were more sun and less green, Jesse would feel at home.

The package is small. It’s apparently some sort of tech, but Jesse isn’t entirely sure. He’s always been more focused on the combat part of operations. The combat part, today, is going smoothly. The men they face barely have pistols and most of them are too impatient to stay in cover for long. Jesse is content to pick them off as they make mistakes.

“You see the package?” Jesse asks. He glances out of cover and makes a low _whoop_ as a bullet whizzes past his ear.

“I saw that.”

“Add it to my reel.”

Genji snorts. “Not yet. Our mark has not made an appearance. I believe your stunning entrance has warned him away.”

“Stunnin’, you say?” Jesse grins and rolls into cover at the abandoned storefront across from the empty gas station their opponents are hunkered down in. “Who’s flatterin’, now?”

Jesse can almost hear Genji roll his eyes. It doesn’t matter; they are trading banter the same way they trade bullets with their opponents. Jesse is damn well _elated_. He feels like it has taken ages to come to this, even though he knows it’s only been a month and a half.

Genji had good reason to be wary, too. The fact that he isn’t, now…

…well. It does things for Jesse’s ego, and maybe something else, too.

“I have sighted the enemy.” Genji’s formal warning brings Jesse back to the present. “He has—”

The warning is cut off by a sudden grunt of pain. Jesse hears the telltale _crack_ that follows in succession and his heart hammers in his chest. “Genji? Genji—”

“Sniper,” Genji grinds out. The single word sends a flash of white-hot panic through Jesse that is just as quickly stamped out.

The thing about bravery and courage is that you don’t just forfeit fear. It’s still there. You just _use_ it.

Jesse slides over to the back door of the store he stands in. “Where ya at, Gen?”

There is a beat of silence and Jesse almost, painfully, thinks Genji is gone ( _dead, say it_ ). Then the comm crackles and Genji says, “Tunnel to the left.”

They both surveyed the land before they set up. Jesse knows where Genji is. So—despite the questions he can already hear Reyes and Morrison asking—Jesse ducks from the storefront and hurls a canister at the entrance to the gas station. The distraction gives him enough time to sprint up the natural ramp that leads to the tunnel Genji is in.

“Ah, shit,” Jesse says. He tries to sound as light and teasing as possible, but the electric crackle from the bullet that ripped through Genji’s prosthetics and the traces off blood don’t help.

Genji presses a hand to his side. “I am still able to move, if—”

“No,” Jesse says sharply. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere. This’ll be worse if you move.”

“You cannot take them alone,” Genji says. His tone is measured, but the frustration in his reply is obvious.

Jesse worries at his lip and thinks. Calculates what he needs to do. He sighs and looks at Genji, trying not to hate where this is going. “Can ya shoot a gun?”

Genji blinks. His expression is pained for a moment, but then he says, “Yes. Though I am nowhere near the shot that you are.”

“Wouldn’t expect it,” Jesse replies. He leans close to the mouth of the tunnel and contemplates. “You’ll get to ground level. Stay hidden and shoot far—I just need a distraction. I’ll grab the package and get ya outta there.”

“You are not going in unarmed,” Genji says, alarmed.

Jesse sighs. “I ain’t gonna. I’ll pick up one ‘a their weapons on the way in or use what I got.”

Genji seems like he’s going to argue, so Jesse just leans close and gingerly lifts him. He doesn’t miss the jump in Genji’s breathing or the way the smaller man’s hand curls tighter on his side.

Coming down from the tunnel and finding cover is easy. It’s harder for Jesse to map the lay of the land, cobble together a plan, and then realize he is about to do something pretty stupid.

Jesse doesn’t find it as hard to hand over Peacemaker. It’s almost alarming how much he trusts putting it in Genji’s hand. “Pick yer targets. Don’t you worry ‘bout hittin’ ‘em. Just buy me time.”

“I will do my best,” Genji says. His voice is still heavy with pain, but his eyes are clear and there is no hesitation in his movements.

Jesse tips his hat a little and smiles as he moves toward the open road. “Remind me to take you to the range with me,” he says, reaching for one of the last two canisters at his waist. “The way you throw those shuriken, I expect you could be a pretty good shot.”

Jesse doesn’t wait for an answer. He rolls into cover and then ducks out to throw a flash bang. Same as always, the men disperse and stumble. It’s easy for Jesse to sprint by them and scoop a discarded gun from the floor. He grunts in disgust—it feels clumsy and light in his hand, as if he could break it. Jesse hates it, but he’s been trained well enough to handle whatever he’s handed.

The mark is cowering by empty shelves, hands over his head. The case at his feet is a dull metal that looks to be bulletproof. “Hey.” Jesse gestures with the gun in his hand. “That it?”

The man swallows. His eyes dart around the room. Jesse has no qualms about killing the man if he has to, but he’s pretty sure he won’t have to. The man will answer his question or lie, and if he lies, it’ll be obvious.

“Yes,” the man finally says, defeated.

“Simple,” Jesse says cheerfully. He picks up the case and tips his hat. “You be safe, now.”

Jesse uses his last canister on the way out. It’s easy to dodge the shots aimed at him while he makes his way out and over to Genji as fast as he can. To his credit, Genji has used the bullets that were in the chamber. Jesse can tell from the difference in weight when Peacekeeper is returned to his hand. It feels _right_ , there.

“Simple,” Genji says lightly. Jesse almost laughs at the coincidence until he remembers that their comms are on.

“Simple,” Jesse agrees. “Hold on.”

Jesse lifts Genji without further warning and darts toward the tunnel again. It’s just a few feet around the corner, toward the shell of a train on the side of the highway. Their transport is on its way and there’s no danger of drawing fire from the men at the gas station. Jesse wonders if they’ve even noticed Genji and Jesse left.

The transport lands near the side of the road and Jesse sprints inside, adrenaline fueling the trip. Once he’s inside, he bangs his fist against the metal wall and says, “Go!”

When the door closes, the absence of sound is deafening. Jesse’s ears still ring from gunfire. He sighs and leans his head back against the wall, feeling his hat pushed to an awkward angle by the move.

“I should strap in.” Genji sounds faintly amused, but there’s still an edge of pain in his voice.

If he’s being honest, Jesse didn’t realize he still had Genji in his arms. Now that he notices, he _really_ doesn’t want to let go. For some stubborn reason, his mind tells him to keep the man there. ( _Just hold them, and they’ll be safe; that’s all you need to do…_ )

“You don’t trust me, Gen?” Jesse asks. He doesn’t open his eyes, but he does smirk a little. “I got guns.”

Genji lets out a short laugh. It’s colored by something…different. A breathlessness. Jesse almost opens his eyes, but then Genji starts to talk and Jesse lets him have the illusion of some privacy.

“You realize your nickname is not much shorter than my name?”

_Oh._ Jesse can’t answer. He needs to think—has to think, because he hadn’t even noticed he had said it out loud. Twice, he realizes, and the first time was when the sniper caught Genji.

The not-quite-nickname has floated around the corners of his mind for some time. Jesse had other ideas, too, but they were probably best saved for later. His slip-up could have been taken badly, but Genji doesn’t seem angry.

“Not much is still somethin’,” Jesse finally says.

Genji is quiet, but the little light in his eyes tells Jesse he did something right. “Yes,” Genji agrees. “It is something.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am actually not sure where this is going, but mostly, I feel like it's casual bits of their life. I feel like slowly amping up to more between them and I really like the concept of these two kids messily figuring out how to be friends and then maybe more.  
> Anyway. I hope you enjoy!


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